Nuances of Meaning
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: He coughed and tried to not think of his own language – a rich and complex one that divulged even less meaning to the listener just by the utter reams of banality in every gesture and word. Ritualized and stultified.


**Warnings:** Introspection, Missing Scene, Character Speculation, Angst, Dark!Fic  
**A/N:** Written for **who_contest**'s **Prompt: **_Language_ and is comprised of the usual overly thinky ramblings, too much speculation and a lack of proper tea. I knew where I wanted to go with this, but I think that I have (alas) wandered off of the beaten path of intention and well...this was the result. There was so much more meant to be conveyed, but my OWN grasp of language is limited it seems. As always, mostly unbeta'd and written in one go, so please forgive any mistakes and/or blatant vagueness. I apologize for any repetition, misspellings, sentence fails, grammatical oh-noes and general horridness. Unbeta'd fic is overly-thinky/blithery and unbeta'd.  
**Disclaimer(s): **_I do not own the scrumptious Doctor or his lovely companions. That honor goes to the BBC and (for now) the fantastic S. Moffat. The only thing that belongs to me is this fiction - and I am making no profit. Only playing about!_

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"It's difficult to explain," he said softly, the dimness reflecting how serious he was, even as he was trying to keep the conversation light and engaging. "When I said I speak baby, when I said I speak everything – it wasn't an exaggeration. It wasn't something meant to impress and – I'm not doing this very well. You know, for a language that is all about communicating and conveying depth of meaning, the English tongue is staggeringly limited."

He coughed and tried to not think of his own language – a rich and complex one that divulged even less meaning to the listener just by the utter reams of banality in every gesture and word. Ritualized and stultified. Though even those words couldn't describe how vastly useless his native tongue was. Or how mind-bendingly boring it was when one was forced to learn it. For all that it sounded 'musical', Gallifreyian was terribly cold and insensitive to the ear of those who understood it.

Sadly, he was one of two left that could.

"I mean, it would be easy enough to let the TARDIS translate and leave it at that, I know. She has been programmed with most of the known languages of the universe – and quite a few of the unknown ones. Most of my race was happy to let it go upon that point; but I discovered that one of the first ways to learn a species, to learn a race of people, is to know their language. Language is so much more than spoken or written communications. It can tell you whole worlds about a people and where they came from, how they learned, what hardships they endured. When you immerse yourself in their speech, when you learn _who_ they are – then…only then – can you understand them. Help them."

He tried to not swallow those last words. Amy deserved an answer to her many questions. There were always so, so many questions. But this one was important. The answer helped shape who he was today. He forced himself to understand, at first – speech and the varieties within the universe. Then he found joy in it. Then he sought it out.

His professors at the Academy would have been furious and pleased all at once: the pupil who failed Public Speaking (and accidentally called a host professor a bad word by using the wrong gesture while formally addressing him), was actually a serious savant when it came to universal languages. He did so poorly in so many of his language studies on Gallifrey – and yet he picked up on another world's language in usually less than a few days' time.

The definition of irony was in there somewhere.

"Language is so much more than just a people, too. Individuals and how they identify with their own native tongue…there is so much to be explored and learned – in just one word, in just one gesture. On my own world, our language had become so rote, it lost all meaning. My people were so caught up in formality and etiquette of speech, they forgot how to _talk_ to one another. All those words, all those lovely ideas to be shared – and they were no better than the dust my world became. All of it is lost. So much learning, so much intellect – but not because of…what happened during the war. They lost themselves long before that. I suppose that is why I try so hard to understand other worlds, other peoples. Maybe it will bring the meaning of my own language back for me. Maybe it can help me understand what my own people lost so long ago. Your language (though cripplingly slight and clunky in the exchange of ideas), is brimming with light and darkness, hope and despair, love and hatred and all the things in between. Even with how limited it is, you convey so much with how little you have. In the end, it is…_beautiful_. You say my language is like music when you hear it. But yours…yours is the notes on which speech is comprised."

The TARDIS seemed to sigh around him, in understanding, in confusion – he didn't know anymore. His own speech to Her was nothing more than images, words and slight sounds pinging around inside his head. Another lost art of language from Gallifrey – and one that was easier to communicate in, even as it was more complex than anything written or spoken from the beginning of time to the end that was to come. It was actually what gave Gallifreyian its subtle flavor – that slight warmth to the cold precision that it had become in those final days after Rassilon went to sleep: His work complete. The damage done. The next millennia would show the extent of that damage – and the Doctor could only see it because he had escaped it. He had learned what speaking, communicating and learning was really about.

"I wish we'd had that chance…to finish this conversation," he murmured, stroking his new console – all harsh lines and dark lighting. More a reflection of what he had run from, what he had become (inevitably, irretrievably – no escape), maybe of what he was meant to be despite of himself.

A reflection of what he had lost and all the questions he would never answer.

He didn't have to say it, even though he desperately wished to. There was no reason to speak now. Not really – not anymore. Because in the end, what was the point of all that speech – of a voice…when there was no one to talk to but yourself?


End file.
